


Adventures in Potion-Making

by static_abyss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amortentia, Budding Love, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24872245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/pseuds/static_abyss
Summary: Ron smells like broomstick handle polish and the oddly generic shampoo scent that Harry's been used to all his life, something clean and soapy, indistinct and easily overlooked. Though Harry doesn't only think of broomstick handle polish and generic shampoo when Ron's around. It's a combination of things, like fried eggs at breakfast and the scent of roasted sausages, treacle tart at The Burrow, and the crisp linen bedsheets of the Gryffindor dorms. It's the citrusy cologne Fred and George give Ron on his birthday, the way Harry inhales deeply when Ron wears it the first time.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley
Comments: 27
Kudos: 274
Collections: RAREHPBINGO





	Adventures in Potion-Making

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Amortentia spot on my rarehpbingo card. You can find the rarehpbingo tumblr [here](https://rarehpbingo.tumblr.com/). It's pretty laid back and it has a server over on discord for anyone interested.

Ron smells like broomstick handle polish and the oddly generic shampoo scent that Harry's been used to all his life, something clean and soapy, indistinct and easily overlooked. Though Harry's never thought of Ron that way. It's impossible not to notice him when he stands so close that Harry can count the freckles on his face. Impossible to forget that he's tall enough that Harry has to lean back to look at him when Ron's leaning against the wall next to him. Hard to remember the generic scent of his shampoo when they're doing laps around the Quidditch pitch, clean grassy smells carried by the wind as they race each other. 

Harry doesn't only think of broomstick handle polish and generic shampoo when Ron's around. It's a combination of things, like fried eggs at breakfast and the scent of roasted sausages, treacle tart at The Burrow, and the crisp linen bedsheets of the Gryffindor dorms. It's the citrusy cologne Fred and George give Ron on his birthday, the way Harry inhales deeply when Ron wears it around him the first time. How he gets carried away with the new smell, something warm and hungry lying low in his belly. 

It's no secret what Harry feels, especially not when they go to sleep at night and Harry can get his hands in Ron's hair, pull him close and get lost in the warm familiarity of Ron at the end of the day, loose and pliant. Harry likes him all the time, more than he thought was possible, more than he'd dared to during their sixth year. The summer they'd spent on the run, hunting down Horcruxes, had served to solidify what Harry felt. He'd known by the time he'd reached The Burrow after the Battle of Hogwarts, that he wanted Ron in whatever way Ron had been willing to give.

Since then, it'd been nights at The Burrow before the start of their eighth year that led to nights in the Gryffindor common room that led to early morning walks down by the Quidditch pitch. They keep it quiet from everyone except for Hermione because she loves them and they need her. Because they would never keep her out of something this important. No matter how new it is. 

*

The love notes aren't really a surprise, though Harry never expected them in such large numbers. Most days, he can't get through his first helping at breakfast before there's a small pile of letters in front of him. Some of them are harmless enough, the standard handwritten notes with various degrees of flattery. Others come in different coloured envelopes, red for Gryffindor, yellow for Hufflepuff, blue for Ravenclaw, and, surprisingly, green for Slytherin. The number of white stripes on these envelopes tells Harry what year the person who sent them is in, and though Harry wishes the letters would stop, he appreciates the hard work and organization being put into this side-business. He's pretty sure Fred and George are involved in some form or another. After all, the only reason for labelling the envelopes this way is so that Harry can tell them apart. 

He can tell Hermione appreciates the organization too, even as she sweeps the whole mess of letters to the side. She's the one who ends up collecting most of them anyway, kind enough to tuck them into her bag to get rid of them where no one can see. Some days, if Harry and Ron have annoyed her enough, she'll leave them on Harry's bed to find later. He's fallen asleep on piles of letters more times than he can count because when he's with Ron, it's so easy to be carefree, to tease, to laugh. 

This morning is no different as Hermione tucks the pile of letters into her bag, the green envelopes outnumbering the red ones today.

"Maybe you shouldn't throw those out, Hermione," Ron says, eyeing the significant stack of eight-striped green envelopes. "Who knows when Harry might fancy something new."

"Ah, yes," Harry says, leaning across Ron to grab some orange juice. "Exactly what I want, Slytherin's in our year whose parents still secretly hate me."

Hermione stares pointedly at the easier-to-reach jug of juice on Harry's other side. Harry ignores her as he leans further into Ron's space. He knows Ron's joking because they dealt with Ron's insecurity about his relationship with Harry in the Forest of Dean when the necklace had brought it all to the front. They're better for the fallout and it's nice to have Ron be so easy with Harry now, so confident in what Harry feels for him.

"You know," Ron says, linking his hand with Harry's under the table. "I think I'm just curious to see what they're writing in the letters. Something like, _Dear Harry, sorry for trying to give you up to You-Know-Who, anyway, fancy a snog?_ "

Harry grins. "What do you reckon I should write back?" 

"Bugger off, I'm taken," Ron says.

Hermione makes a quiet gagging sound across from them and Harry knows he's going to find a stack of letters on his four-poster tonight. Somehow, he finds that he doesn't mind.

*

"We're reviewing Amortentia, among others, today," Slughorn says to the class that afternoon. "There's no guarantee that these potions won't show up on the NEWTs and seeing as how we have a bit of a learning curve with regards to curriculums, I thought it would be a nice place to start. Don't you think, Harry?"

Harry, who's been trying to hide behind Hermione's strategically placed bag, looks up. "Of course, Professor," he says. 

Harry can hear Dean and Seamus laughing to his right and he has to fight to keep a straight face. There's just something about surviving Snatchers and fighting for your life that makes it difficult to take Slughorn's flattery seriously. It's also nice, Harry thinks, to feel like the whole room is on his side even if all he's really against is an overeager Potions' Professor. 

The class goes by quickly as Slughorn goes over the general instructions for preparing one of the four potions up in front. The Amortentia is the only one Harry recognises and the Draught of the Living Death when Hermione points it out. He's almost sure that the third potion is an Everlasting Elixir, but he can't quite place how he knows. He thinks he might have read it in their Potions book. 

"All right class," Slughorn says when his lecture is over. "Split into pairs, take a sample of one of the four potions up in front and try to replicate it. Grades will be given based on how close to the original your potion ends up being."

There's the usual scramble for the front, people shoving each other out of the way as they try to get to one of the easier potions. After a while, Slughorn vanishes the fourth potion to general grumblings from the group of students queuing up behind that cauldron. Ron nudges Harry's shoulder and nods to the empty desks around them.

Harry shakes his head but gets up to form the queue as Ron pulls out his cauldron and lays out their Potions book. Harry waited too long and by the time he gets to the front of the classroom, the only potion left is the Amortentia. He takes a vial of the stuff under Slughorn's wide grin.

"Ah, yes, Amortentia," Slughorn says. "One of the most complex of potions. Ruined many a relationship back in my day."

"How so, Professor?" Harry asks politely. 

"Witches and wizards with too much heart and not enough sense," Slughorn says before shooing away the rest of the students. 

Harry makes it back to his desk and hands over the vial. Ron looks at the white mother-of-pearl liquid sloshing inside. He's so focused on the potion that he doesn't notice Harry watching him until Harry clears his throat. He turns bright red and Harry's fascinated by the way the blush runs across the bridge of Ron's nose.

"You know Amortentia's supposed to smell like what attracts you the most," Ron says.

He says it so casually, it's almost painful, and Harry forgets for a moment that they're supposed to be keeping things quiet. They've only been together a little under six months and though things have been going well, they both agree that they're not ready for the Prophet articles that will come once their relationship is public. They're finishing school. They've been through a war. They deserve a little time for themselves.

It's hard to remember that though when Ron's looking at Harry with that measured expression, confidence born from years of truly knowing Harry, and apprehension at this particular development in their relationship. It's not quite "I love you like a boyfriend," but it's close enough. 

"Open it," Harry says. "I'll go get the ingredients."

He goes, taking his time picking out what they'll need, not bothering to hide the fact that he's stalling. He means only to give himself some time to process the new feelings. He's always loved Ron, cared for him from the moment Ron sat next to him on the Hogwarts Express and offered to share his sandwiches. This thing between them now is similar to that, a certainty that Ron loves him, that Ron understands him, that no matter what, Ron will always be there for him. Calling it love feels inadequate because Harry already loves Ron. But calling it the same as before doesn't fit either. Harry figures this is just one of the things that they have to get used to.

He turns back to the room, carries the armful of ingredients back to Ron, and dumps them on their table. In front of them, Dean and Seamus have managed to partner with Hermione as the rest of the students have already broken off into pairs. Harry watches Dean chopping up ingredients and dropping them into the cauldron. They have an unfair advantage, especially since Dean's always been one of the few who could give Hermione a run for her money.

"Do you have any idea what we're doing?" Harry asks, turning back to Ron.

But Ron doesn't answer even when Harry repeats his question. He's staring into his cauldron, watching the swirls of vapour coming off the pearlescent liquid. Harry stares into the depths of the cauldron and sees nothing amiss. 

"What's wrong?" he asks.

Ron shakes his head and blinks as though coming out of a trance. "What do you smell?"

Harry frowns but leans forward. He expects the same as his sixth year, broomstick polish and treacle tart. He inhales deeply, letting the fumes wash over him. He smells pine, the sharp scent of wet stone, and strong coffee. He exhales and pine gets stronger, reminding Harry of camping grounds and the Quidditch World Cup. The coffee reminds him of the campgrounds too, of staying awake to keep watch while Ron and Hermione slept, keeping them safe. The wet stone could be Hogwarts, could be The Burrow, could be the Quidditch pitch, the locker rooms. All generic scents that remind him of home, of that painful pull to belong.

Nothing unique to Ron.

Harry looks up slowly, sees the understanding on Ron's face. "Why?" he asks, finally. "What do you smell?"

*

The letters come the next morning, more yellow than any other colour. They're scattered over the breakfast table gleaming under the sun from the enchanted ceiling. The three-striped ones outnumber the others today, and Harry's already turning back to his breakfast as Hermione removes one of the letters from her porridge.

"You know, Harry," she says. "I'm sure we can find a better way to get these letters to you."

"Yeah," Ron snorts, "that's exactly what he needs, a whole new magical method of receiving letters just for him."

It's not out of the ordinary to hear these things from Ron. It isn't even a new thought, but Ron isn't holding his hand under the table this morning and the Amortentia is still fresh in Harry's mind. He knows Ron doesn't mean to sound dismissive or flippant but suddenly, the letters feel like too much, the chatter of students, loud around Harry. He can feel eyes on him and though there are always eyes on him, Harry finds that he wants to be somewhere else.

"I have to go," he says, distractedly. 

He hears Hermione asking a question, thinks he hears the sound of Ron's voice, but it's too late. By the time Harry even thinks to stop and catch his breath, he's out by the lake. The weak fall sunlight washes over him as Harry stares into the greenish-blue water. He's thankful for the silence, even though he knows this means he shouldn't be out here. He has Transfiguration and McGonagall doesn't forgive unexcused absences. 

Harry sighs, sinking into the grass anyway, the scent reminding him of the garden at The Burrow. When he'd asked Ron yesterday what he'd smelled in the Amortentia, Ron had said his mother's cooking, the shampoo he uses, and something citrusy like the cologne Fred and George had given him for his birthday. Nothing of Harry's either, no broomstick handle polish, not even the overpriced cologne Ron had given Harry after they'd smelled it on one of the yellow letters.

It figures, Harry thinks, as he watches the ripples on the lake's surface, that after everything, he still doesn't get to have what he wants. Not even the certainty that he's doing the right thing with Ron. That these new feelings that weigh heavy on his heart, something close to desperation at times, might be no more than a passing thing. The thoughts are bitter and Harry lets the anger they inspire wash over him. He'd thought that this time it would be simple because he'd been so sure he was in love with Ron. 

He doesn't know how long he sits there, feeling sorry for himself, before he hears footsteps behind him. And though part of him hopes it's Ron, he's relieved to see Hermione. She frowns at him but takes a seat on the grass next to him.

"Class is over. Ron had to tell Professor McGonagall that you'd gone to the Infirmary because one of your letters accidentally exploded again," she says. "You have five minutes to explain what's going on before I leave you here. We started human transfiguration theory today and I want to review it before next class."

Harry laughs despite himself because he can always count on Hermione to be Hermione. "I'm sorry," he says. "It's just been a long day."

"I see," she says, delicately. "And I don't suppose this long day has anything to do with Slughorn's class yesterday?"

Harry shrugs and wraps his arms around his legs. He's never particularly liked it when Hermione has the upper hand, especially not when he knows it's deserved and that he'll only make a fool of himself if he pretends otherwise. 

"It's a love potion, Harry," she says when he refuses to speak. "It's not meant to show you real love."

He looks at her then, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Who told you it was about the love potion?"

Hermione rolls her eyes. "You and Ron are really not that difficult to figure out," she says. "Besides, I did the Amortentia too and it smelled different from last time. That's what happens in war, Harry, people change. What we want changes. Who we are. But as much as I make a fuss over your inability to process normal human emotions, I understand that it's hard. Especially because it's Ron and you've always loved Ron."

"Yeah," Harry says. "I have."

"Which means that it's going to be harder for you to make that distinction between your usual feelings for Ron and the new ones now. But for what it's worth, you're good for each other and I really do want you and Ron to be happy. So figure it out."

Hermione stands but doesn't leave.

"What is it?" Harry asks. 

She tsks and pulls out an eight-striped red envelope from her bag. "It's for you," she says. "Came in this morning. I think you should read it."

"Hermione," Harry starts.

She shakes her head. "Read it," she says.

Harry takes the envelope from her, the paper smooth and glossy. He turns it over in his hands, the sunlight catching the messy script on the front. It's from Ron. 

Harry smiles and with the morning breeze coming across the lake, he opens the letter to read. 

*

_~~Dear Harry,~~  
~~Blimey, do I feel stupid.~~  
~~To Harry,~~  
~~This is much harder to start than I thought it'd be.~~ _

_Harry,_

_You never open any of the letters you get, even though I still think you should. It isn't fair that you don't get to read about how great you are or how much people love you. You are and they do, you know. Love you that is. Especially me._

_I love you, which shouldn't be a weird thing to say. We've said it enough times as it is. But you and I both know that it's different this time, that we mean it a different way. I know Mum will be pleased. She's always wanted you to marry into the family, though I expect she'd been thinking more along the lines of you marrying Ginny. Which is terrifying. She'd eat you alive, mate._

_Anyway, what I wanted to say was that I don't always need Hermione to help me work through all these bloody feelings. I know Slughorn's potion shit mucked everything up and that one of us has to sort this out. Funny that it's me, huh._

_Listen, what I wanted to say was that I love you and I don't need some potion telling me if it's true or not. It is what it is, mate. We just have to accept it._

_Love, Ron_

*

Harry thinks there are better ways to do this, but he'd been on his way to see Ron and Ron had been coming out of the Boy's Dormitory and it had been easier to push Ron against the bedframe and kiss him. He feels good under Harry's hands, hot skin and warm mouth, his heartbeat thumping hard against Harry's palm.

"So I take it you got the letter," Ron says, between kisses. 

He's almost laughing, and the surge of fondness Harry feels for him at that moment takes his breath away.

"Don't know why we bother pretending either of us knows anything about Potions," Harry says, shoving Ron backwards onto the bed. "We both know Hermione's the only one we should be listening to anyway."

"Hm," Ron says, "right, yeah, Hermione."

"You're not listening," Harry says, amused.

Ron sighs and spreads out along the mattress. He's looking up at the ceiling, relaxed against the bed, obviously surrendering.

"It's a stupid potion, Harry," Ron says. "Romilda Vane gave me the same thing back in sixth year, remember that? And you wouldn't say I loved her, would you?"

Ron leans up on his elbows and looks at Harry. He raises an eyebrow pointedly and Harry shakes his head. 

"No, I don't think you were in love with Romilda Vane," Harry says. 

Ron grins. "Right," he says, all satisfied charm. "There you go then. Love potions are bollocks."

"Love potions are bollocks," Harry agrees. 

And really, at the end of the day, with Ron's hands warm against Harry's skin, there's nothing else Harry needs to know.


End file.
